


Another Christmas Tradition

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Coincidences, M/M, Mycroft-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 23:46:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft's resigned himself to a lonely, Christmas free December. A late night stroll, a chance meeting and things might change...





	Another Christmas Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> For Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017. So pleased to be involved! Thanks to [crickette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette) who prodded me and [mottlemoth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mottlemoth) who welcomed me into the fold.

Mycroft sighed, swirling expensive Scotch in the bottom of his glass. There was nothing keeping him here at his club, but equally, nothing for which he was required at home. Thank God the club did not decorate for the season; it was depressing enough catching glimpses of Christmas lights and snow out the window of his car, let alone sitting in the Reading Room surrounded by it. It was a very well hidden part of Mycroft that wished he had someone with whom to celebrate the season. Nobody, not even his brother, knew of his weakness for snow, eggnog and mistletoe. As such, decorations were more depressive than festive. Sinking into the high-backed chair, Mycroft resorted to thinking about a certain Detective Inspector who was surely not thinking about him. The problem had been lately that Mycroft wondered if perhaps this Detective Inspector was, in fact, thinking about him – possibly even flirting with him. While most of his brain shut that idea down, flashing images of Mycroft’s unbecoming physical form as evidence, a small part reminded him of the subtle shift in their dynamic recently.

Greg had begun offering coffee when Mycroft attended crime scenes or the Yard, asking more about Mycroft rather than Sherlock. Nothing too personal, but beyond the reaches of their professional interaction. Did he celebrate Christmas, were his parents still alive to visit, was there a Kris Kringle at his office (‘Good Lord, no!’ Mycroft had responded without pause). Mycroft was fairly desperate to know what it was that drove this new interest, but his firm decision not to dig up information about Greg other than basic security screenings forbade his research. Instead he was left to wonder, like so many others, what drove the solitary detective. The possibility of his returning Greg’s hesitant interest had been considered and dismissed, even under the guise of festive cheer. The risk was too great that he was wrong, despite his deductive capabilities.

Finishing his drink, Mycroft stood up. He could go home, run for longer than usual, and collapse into bed. Armed with this plan, feeble though it might be, Mycroft readied himself to leave before stepping out onto the cold street. He stared at the car that awaited him, then, with an impulsivity that surprise even him, turned away, electing instead to walk along the footpath. Little snow had fallen this year, to general despair and Mycroft’s personal disappointment. What was the point of this biting cold without snow to soften the harsh lines of the city? Unusually irritated by the car following him, Mycroft turned off into St James’ Park, knowing they could not immediately follow. He walked along the path, the darkness feeling comforting rather than threatening. There were enough lamps lit to guide his way, and the quiet was different here than at the club.

As he walked his mind drifted and he allowed it to, letting his thoughts shift without purpose, a rare freedom. He glanced at the clouds above, assessing the likelihood of any snowfall at all this evening. Who was he kidding, he knew nothing about meteorology. Bringing his eyes back to Earth, Mycroft glanced left and frowned at the familiar figure strolling along the path perpendicular to his own. He stopped, wondering if it was reality or his brain creating an alternative better aligned with his fantasies. As the figure drew closer and Mycroft accepted it was, in fact, the Detective Inspector, he recalled that Greg’s flat was not far from the other side of the park, most likely chosen for its proximity to New Scotland Yard. It was not out of the realm of possibility that they would walk in the same park late in the evening.

“Mycroft.” Greg’s voice was surprised, pitched low and unthreatening. He paused before Mycroft at the intersection.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft returned the greeting. There was a moment of hesitation before they fell into step together. The late night and absence of a crime scene or dark warehouse made the serendipitous meeting immediately different enough that Mycroft did not feel the need to ask questions or offer observations. Whatever Greg’s reaction, he was just as reticent, and they paced in silence. When they had walked for a while, surprisingly comfortable with the silence, Greg spoke first.

“I haven’t seen you here before. I walk here a lot, after I leave work. Helps to clear my head.”

Mycroft nodded. “I found myself in need of the same this evening.” He saw Greg nod in understanding, and they fell once more into silence.

“You’re different tonight.” Greg’s observation was quite but factual. He didn’t offer anything else, whether waiting for a reaction or satisfied with the observation made, Mycroft could not tell in the darkness. They were still walking, the occasional lamp lighting their way, but it was not enough observe him closely.

“How so?” asked Mycroft.

 Greg considered the question, leaving Mycroft wondering if he intended to answer at all. “Your silence is somber.”

Mycroft nodded again, considering the careful word choice. “That’s not inaccurate,” he allowed. “Today was…difficult.”

Greg did not ask how, or why. He didn’t speak at all, in fact, merely tucking his hand into the crook of Mycroft’s elbow, a companionable if overly familiar action. Mycroft stiffened at first before accommodating the touch. It felt like an evening for taking chances, accommodating the unusual. Mycroft could feel Greg’s wrist pressed against his ribs, fingers curled around his inner elbow. They walked like that for a time, neither commenting on it.

“You also seem reserved this evening,” observed Mycroft. Greg wasn’t usually particularly animated and happy, but this was a graver version of him than Mycroft had seen in a long time – since the worst of the crime scenes they had both visited.

“Not the best of days either,” said Greg simply. They walked a little further before Greg pointed at a building across the road from the park. “That’s my flat. You’re welcome up for a cuppa if you’d like.”

They stopped walking as Mycroft considered the offer. It wasn’t clear which flat Greg meant, though it was likely they were all the same shoebox layout. Mycroft wondered if Greg would have invited him under normal circumstances. What was it about this evening that was different? Did Greg sense it too? He sounded diffident, almost uncaring if Mycroft accepted or not. It was possibly his tiredness colouring his voice, Mycroft thought. Impossible to tell, for once, what he was thinking.

“Certainly. Thank you,” accepted Mycroft to his own astonishment. This evening, with the quiet voices and dim lights, seemed to be removed from their usual worlds. Accepting Greg’s offer felt right, natural, and Mycroft was not going to protest against it. They walked over together, Greg opening doors and leading the way up steps, Mycroft following behind. He dimly recognised the absence of the pressure inside his elbow, Greg’s hand now employed with doors and locks.

“You enjoy Christmas,” said Mycroft as they passed the mailboxes in the entrance hall. Greg’s bore a bauble and some tinsel, and the trend continued with the wreath on his door. He shot Mycroft an apprehensive look before opening the lock.

“I hope you’re not particularly averse to it,” was all that Mycroft heard before he stopped in the doorway. His mouth had dropped open, he knew; the profusion of Christmas decorations in the small flat was a little overwhelming. A small, real tree, decorated to within an inch of its life, flashed silver lights; strings of tinsel hung across the lintel, baubles attached to each sweep of glittering length. The mantle held a nativity scene complete with glowing star, shepherds and wise men. Breathing deeply, Mycroft could smell the scent of the tree, the slightly dusty scent of decorations pulled from storage and the spices he associated with…

“A gingerbread house?” Mycroft said, having walked forward as he took in all the decorations. The structure was resting on the small table. It was a perfect tiny construction, decorated with icing and sweets, a border of the tops of candy canes defining the edge of a garden dressed with mint leaf trees.

“Yes,” Greg said, reappearing from (presumably) the bedroom. He’d shed his coat by the door and now his jacket and tie were gone, too. He came to stand beside Mycroft, the two of them looking at the table.

“Can I take your coat?” Greg asked, and Mycroft slid it off, along with his gloves and scarf. Neither spoke as Greg draped them over the back of the sofa, fingers lingering over the fine wool of Mycroft’s coat.

“Why so much?” Mycroft asked, sweeping his eyes around the room.

“Because I can,” replied Greg simply. “We didn’t have the money as kids, but I loved the decorations, the tree, all of it. Still do.” He shrugged, not self-conscious but still lacking the animation Mycroft associated with the detective. “So now I go over the top. My niece and nephew love it. I usually give this to them.” He waved one hand at the gingerbread house. The silence fell between them again, and Mycroft wondered what to say to advance their evening. Greg had offered tea. Would it be too forward to ask after it? In lieu of any definitive answer, Mycroft stood, eyes still fixed on the gingerbread even as all his other senses were trained on Greg.

 “I can’t do this any longer. Are you interested in me or not, Mycroft?” The question hung in the air as Mycroft felt his mouth fall open, no words coming to him. In all the scenarios he had considered as possible, this had never been entertained as plausible at all. Looking sideways, he took in Greg’s face. He looked defeated, Mycroft thought. Shoulders slumped, voice quiet, eyes resigned.

“Yes,” replied Mycroft simply. Greg blinked, his gaze skittering away before settling again on Mycroft. They stared at each other for a long moment. “Why are you asking now, like this?” Mycroft wanted to know. It seemed to be an evening of honest questions and answers, reality suspended in more ways than one.

“Terrible day. And I’ve been trying to flirt with you for weeks with no effect. I’m too old and tired to keep doing it.” Greg’s voice was still flat. Despite Mycroft’s affirmation that he was interested in Greg, there was no joy in his face. “I just wanted to know one way or the other.” He tried for a smile, which did not come off well. “Maybe we could grab dinner next week or something.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replied. He felt tired too, though the primary emotion flowing through him was relief. A kind of happy release of the tension he’d felt between them in the last few months. With a sudden burst of inspiration (and possibly reckless abandon), he stepped over to the mantle, picking up a small item and standing under the doorjamb into the kitchen.

“Another tradition,” Mycroft murmured, hanging the sprig of mistletoe on the nail above his head (he suspected it had been placed there for this exact purpose). He looked at Greg, relief and exhaustion warring on the tanned face as he watched Mycroft. The understanding spread slowly along with the wobbly smile, and Greg stepped across the room to stand toe to toe with Mycroft under the mistletoe.

“Merry Christmas, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, his heart pounding as he lowered his head to meet Greg’s lips with his own. The kiss was chaste and sweet, an understated ending and beginning in one. Greg sighed, his arms wrapping around Mycroft as they swayed together under the mistletoe.

“Best Christmas ever,” breathed Greg as he finally smiled against Mycroft’s lips.

 


End file.
